


Chimera, Fallen

by WerewolvesAreReal



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Agender Character, Angst, Changelings, Dominion War, Gen, Genocide Mentions, Morphogenic Virus, Other, Post Episode: s07e14 Chimera, Section 31 Virus, link - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-09
Updated: 2014-07-09
Packaged: 2018-02-08 03:05:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1924383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WerewolvesAreReal/pseuds/WerewolvesAreReal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Odo goes off with Laas during 'Chimera'. Watching the Federation fall to the Dominion is bad enough. Then the effects of Section 31's virus catch up with them...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chimera, Fallen

 

* * *

_"The truth is, I prefer the so-called primitive lifeforms. They exist as they were meant to, by following their instincts. No words to get in the way, no lies, no deceptions."_ \- Laas, “Chimera”.

* * *

 

“Laas?”

Laas smiles. “I knew you would come,” he breathes. “This is a new beginning for us, Odo. A new beginning for our people. You and I are about to embark on the adventure of our lives...” he pauses. “ - What's wrong.”

Odo looks back at his stolen runabout. Thinks of Kira. Thinks of war and hostile glances on the Promenade. “ - I'm - not sure about this.”

“Don't be a fool. What are you holding on to? Kira? Even she knows that this is what's best for you. Why else would she have helped me to escape?”

True. All of it true. But, “That's a very easy thing to say when you have never loved.”

“I _have._ I told you about her. But, Odo - it won't last. You know it can't. Even if she loves you the rest of her life, she will die, and you will continue. In pain. And having experienced love, I can tell you it is a pale shadow to the Link... but pain? That never leaves, Odo.”

Odo wavers.

“We can find the others, Odo. We can be a family of our own.”

A family.

Something he can never have with Kira. A family forever, and acceptance. Freedom.

Something in him falls away, broken. “Alright. We'll find them. We'll find all of them.”

Laas smiles, and leans forward to grasp his shoulders. Odo accepts the embrace. It feels like surrender.

* * *

 

Laas teaches Odo how to become a space-craft.

“I could only go so far before regenerating,” he explains excitedly, “But with two of us we can take turns.”

So they do. Laas goes first, and Odo rests in his soft, liquid state with only silence around him. He feels the quick flutter of Laas's appendages, tucked safely in a tiny hollow inside the other changeling. It is somehow more comfortable than any Federation runabout has ever managed to be.

When it is Odo's turn he swims through the blackness of space with a flexing of supple fins aided by feathery-light wings. The latter do little, but they are aesthetic and Odo likes them. Laas won't judge. So if Odo wants to indulge for once - why not?

* * *

 

They drift slowly from planet to planet. Laas can match features better than he let on, and he questions native species about changelings, shapeshifters, 'metamorphs'. Sometimes these questions are treated with hostility or confusion. More rarely, he finds a possible lead.

Odo feels young, sometimes, drifting after Laas as fog or smoke or even transparent air. Odo has seen over forty years. He has lived through experimentation, an Occupation, and the stresses of moral conflict, death, and personal grief. Even among his earliest days attempting speech and mimicry he has never felt young. He is old, old, old in a way that cannot be quantified with years. His matrix is, perhaps, the recycled growth of some distant giant, ageless and eternal. Odo is neither man or woman, solid or liquid. He defies categorization. He is _different,_ separate, and he always has been.

And now there is Laas. And Odo is young.

It is a perplexing, electrifying thought. A pleasant one. Laas, ahead, notes his inattention and glances back. There is a gleam of simple pleasure in his eyes. The metamorph turns, looking toward the mountains ahead of them.

“Race you,” he calls. He shifts. The flap of wings startles a nearby deer from the trees.

Odo takes to the sky.

* * *

 

They find no hint of shapeshifters on the first world they come to, or the second, or the third. But there is no sorrow, and the passing of time means little. When rest is necessary they find some uninhabited, desolate place and make it their own.

At night - or sunrise or sunset or dusk or whenever they want - they sink into the delirious ecstasy of the Link, the Bond. They are united, separate. They are eternal. And they have forever to continue on their quest. Doubtlessly they will find others, eventually. But right now, in the intervening years, they are not alone. It is enough. It is more than enough.

* * *

 

As they journey, Odo hears about the war.

None of the news surprises him, in truth. The Federation is losing ships by the hundreds. On every planet people walk by dressed in their respective clothes of mourning. Klingons howl their warnings to Sto-Vo-Kor upon learning of the loss of loved ones, and men and women both succumb to tears in the streets. These days the speed of information is both a blessing and a curse. There is not a single planet in the Federation unaffected by the combat.

Laas, when he hears about the war, often wears a faint smile. So Odo doesn't talk about it.

* * *

 

On the next planet Odo experiments. He spends some time as liquid nitrogen, then shifts back. The change seems to come slowly. His shoulder pinches. Odo shakes away the pain and thinks nothing of it.

* * *

 

The revolt of Cardassia makes every Federation headline. The world is in tatters, and the casualty list is stunning. The Cardassians have nearly been wiped out, and their world is entirely uninhabitable. Most surviving Cardassians seem slotted for death. The Founders have apparently decreed that the race itself is an enemy of the Dominion, and Jem'Hadar attack ships pursue Cardassian vessels with extreme prejudice.

On Terdra II Odo watches a Cardassian rebel stumble by, bleeding from a gash on his arm. He pleads and begs as Odo has never seen a Cardassian do. He says his ship is damaged. Half his crew is dead. The government has been ignoring his hails. He needs help.

Everyone averts their eyes. No one wants to be an enemy of the Dominion, these days, and Odo can't bring himself to blame them.

Mostly because he looks away, too.

* * *

 

On Keredrian Odo learns the pleasure of the 'simple life-forms', as Laas once called them. He sheds his humanoid form and stops practicing abstract morphs, simply reveling in the small joys of small creatures. He spends a week as a tiny, fox-like rodent with two tails and six eyes, which curls into a spiky ball when it sleeps and purrs when satisfied. He purrs frequently – but he is not even a _he_ in this form. Odo takes the shape of a female rodent, just to see if the other changeling comments, and Laas never does. Everyone else Odo has known would have, he is certain of that. The comparison is perhaps unfair, but he makes it.

Words, he finds, are unnecessary. Laas, in twin form, sticks close to his side. Their shoulders brush as they wander through the growth of the planet's quiet meadows. When the sun is high and a bounce comes to Odo's step, Laas nips at his shoulder and bounds across the ground, pebbles scrabbling under his feet; at dusk, they wander in silence, unafraid, undying, at peace.

And during the Link words would be an insult. During the Link they are one, united, inviolate. Sacred. A lifetime of this, when life is forever...

That is, must be, worth any price.

* * *

 

Odo can see Laas drifting lazily over a herd of blue bovines in the distance. Perching on a tree in kestral-shape, he lifts a wing awkwardly and tilts his head.

A pinion feather flutters from his body, flickering and wheeling as it whizzes to the ground. Before it touches the dewy grass it shifts, becoming a bit of familiar amber-pink plasma which disappears swiftly from sight. Odo stares after it.

The spot where the 'feather' had come from burns. An ugly, gaping pink mass remains in its place. He tries, but cannot form another feather over the spot. It reminds him of his terrifying torture aboard Tain's ship in the Gamma Quadrant. But how...?

He looks toward the herd of bovines. Laas is drifting around, maybe searching for him, maybe not. Odo rustles his feathers. He looks down, and sees that he has managed to cover the spot again after all.

Well. No harm done, then. Nothing to worry about...

* * *

 

Though they have nothing to fear from the Vorta or Jem'Hadar, changelings are not welcome in the tattered remnants of the Federation. The member-worlds by which Odo and Laas travel are bitter and subdued, but not defeated. Resentment is high. It is a hard truth, galactic conquest. Worlds are not easily swayed by threats of violence from forces worlds or quadrants away. Odo recalls memories of a mirror-universe, of a desperate struggle for survival after centuries of slavery. The Federation is not dead, just sleeping. And one day, soon, the Dominion will tread wrongly and wake it.

* * *

 

They are in a bustling spaceport on the edges of Federation space, far from war or ruin. Laas goes to ask about rumors of shapeshifters. Odo, for his part, goes to a local bar in the hope of hearing something about the new Dominion rule.

Odo wonders if he should say something about the slow peel of his form. Shapeshifting is becoming hard. But for all he knows this is a passing sickness, or even a natural, occasional process. Maybe he's shedding. He should ask Laas. The other shapeshifter is older. He will know.

Odo enters the bar. Walks into a corner. Sinks into a wall.

And he listens.

Odo lets the low murmur of voices wash over him. There is nothing really worthy of notice, but the bar, itself, is familiar. There's not much diversity in such places. A cajoling business man pushes drinks on customers; men play darts in a far corner; games of chance elicit groans of disappointment; occasionally the rare, triumphant clink of coin pass hands. Odo amuses himself by subtly changing color and seeing how long it takes for someone to do a double-take at his section of the wall.

At the bar two humans are speaking. Odo shifts closer.

“Dead or dying, the lot of them,” says one to the other.

“I haven't heard of it.”

“Well, I'm telling you now. All the Founders are dying. When they're gone the Dominion won't last long, you can bet on that.”

“The Founders never got involved in the war. That was all the Jem'Hadar.”

“I don't know about that. But I do know that when you cut the head off a snake, that's it. Game over. There might be some nasty death-throes, but that's _it_.”

“It won't be clean.”

“No. But who cares? The Founders will be _dead.”_ The man takes another drink, downing it in one swig. “And I say good riddance.”

* * *

 

Odo doesn't tell Laas about the peeling.

* * *

 

They go to another spaceport, and another, and another. Odo starts to wonder, and to watch. Is Laas afflicted with this strange illness? _Has_ he been afflicted? But the other shapeshifter seems as easy and earnest as ever, still burning with drive, still insanely driven to find more changelings to bring into their new small Link. Odo sees no evidence of illness in him, and wonders, with relief, if Laas isn't miraculously immune. Surely no disease hits 100% of the population, anyway.

Then on Deep Space 11, as they sit in a cramped Aularian music-house talking solid-style, Laas sighs and says, “This isn't going fast enough. We need to find more of our people.”

“We have time,” Odo answers, which is a blatant lie. “We know they're out there. We at least have each other, now – we can afford to be patient.”

“I know,” Laas says, absently prodding his plate of completely useless food. “I just wish there were more of us. You should have the company.”

Odo pauses.

Processes.

Understands.

He takes a breath – a useless habit, one picked up from too many years among humanoids – and says, “Laas, I think there's something I should tell you.”

* * *

 

Sometimes Odo hates the Federation. He hates them with a violent, loathing passion that surprises himself. He doesn't know why, but as days pass and the future starts to look bleak something sinks under his skin and rests there. It simmers low and furious under his twisting skin. He is dying, and the Federation will live. These things are connected, and they are not. And Odo hates the dead-and-deathless Federation.

But he loves her people desperately.

* * *

 

Laas suggests they go to an uninhabited planet, Vurill Prime, and take a 'vacation'. The world has abundant plant-life and some small animal life, but is too methane-heavy for most Federation colonists to bother with. Fortunately, they do not need oxygen. “I believe this will be a pleasing diversion,” Laas says, “And there is no reason to rush our search.”

They both politely ignore the way part of Laas' chin sags and flakes as he says this. Certain things are best left unspoken.

* * *

 

The motivations for coming to Vurill might be unpleasant, but the planet itself is so lovely that Odo begins to feel a rare breed of optimism. Everything on the world is gold and silver and deep, royal blue. They explore the planet awhile.

Odo becomes fatigued by shapeshifting. He does not say this, but Laas seems to know, because the older shapeshifter never encourages Odo to experiment anymore. So Odo sticks to his humanoid form, his most familiar shape. Laas moves as fog and fire less and less. Instead he prefers to run over the golden grasses of Vurill as a shaggy, blue-furred dog, briefly giving himself a human mouth if he wants to talk. More often he just Links, or even does neither. Odo is no longer sure if it is because they do not require words, or because the words are just too painful.

Vurill is truly beautiful.

* * *

 

Odo has always been able to see perfectly well in darkness, and he thinks little of it. But now by unspoken consent they chose to regenerate at night - though admittedly Odo is finding himself less and less inclined to regeneration.

So when the sun hangs low in the sky, they make their way up a hill and reach a large, silver-barked tree. Its leaves shine like soft white-gold, and the air is cool. Looking back down the hill Odo can see the swaying tops of a forest of trees, moving in the wind like gentle, ghostly flowers.

He turns to Laas. The dog sits gingerly and lets out a low whine.

“Here,” is all Odo says.

Laas lowers his head.

* * *

 

They walk around the hill, never straying too far. The changing measure of the light colors the silvery forest to reflect the shifting sky.

He stays close to Laas - or maybe it's the other way around? Odo tries to turn into a canine, too. But he can't. He doesn't feel inclined to regenerate either.

Laas huffs a sigh.

“I really wish you'd preferred humanoid forms,” Odo says.

* * *

 

“We never did find the others,” Odo tells Laas one day. Birds sing in the distance. He strokes the canine hesitantly. A clump of fur comes away and melts in his palm.

Laas stares up at him.

“I know,” Odo sighs, and for once feels light and unburdened. “I know.”

* * *

 

Odo is glad Kira won't see this.

* * *

 

When the sun sets on the last day Odo sits with his back to the huge silver tree. Its broad leaves fall, twirling down the air and casting dappled shadows. The top layer of his arm is peeling off slowly, slowly, and his legs sink into the earth like mud. His back begins to mold against the broad trunk behind him.

Laas lays his twisted mess of a snout against Odo's withered leg. He stares up with his large, quiet eyes, ageless and grieving. His jaw unhinges, and Odo counts the tiny _snaps_ as tendons shrivel and fall one by one.

“We can die after all, I suppose,” Odo murmurs.

Laas closes his eyes, sagging against him. Trembling, Odo raises a mangled hand to touch the creature's head. “But not alone,” he says, desperately. “We're not meant to be alone.”

Laas does not respond, of course.

Odo presses harder. His hand remains solid. Torn and shredded and ugly, but solid. “We're not _meant_ for this,” he repeats.

The sun lowers. Odo cannot see. His human eyes are all he has left, and they fail, too, oozing out slowly with the light of the day. He tries to speak again, and cannot.

_We're not meant for this._

 

* * *

 

The sun rises. Golden strands of sunlight reach out and caress the edges of a stately silver tree, alone and solitary on a far-off hill. Today, though, something is different. At its roots rest twin saplings, bending and folding about one another and vying for the light.

And over the years they grow, always together, as their highest boughs reach up toward the stars.


End file.
